Читать книгу Almost 5'4" - Isobella Jade - Страница 21

The photographers I had worked with so far all told me that nude modeling was my future, the only way for me to go. I was too short for catwalk. Too short for fashion. All the supermodels were 5′ 10″ or over and here I was barely 5′ 2″ (almost 5′ 4″ in heels!). To me, modeling was either fashion or Playboy, and I knew I wasn’t a fashion model.

I found myself checking out the competition. I needed to feed my jealousy to motivate myself. I Googled ‘modeling,’ then the word ‘model,’ and finally ‘New York City + models.’ Then the reverse – ‘models + New York City,’ – just in case the results were different. The girls I was looking at were all statuesque, tall, and beautiful. They were Giraffes compared to me. I had to face the fact that I didn’t have a chance in hell at an agency in New York City. I was dizzy with frustration.

As for Danny, I cared for him deeply, wanted his approval, and he did hang a few lingerie photos on the door of his dorm room. But he didn’t think I was doing the right thing by modeling. He said it made me crazy and always in a rush, talking fast and about something he knew nothing about. I would bitch about the perverts who downloaded my photos one minute and then run off to another shoot the next.

He didn’t budge on his feelings about modeling, and couldn’t understand why I wanted to do something that drove me so nuts. I wasn’t complaining, because I wanted to do it, but I was lonely. Still, I was sure I was doing the right thing, even though I kept lots of the shoots secret from him.

A circus was taking place in my head. When I was modeling it was as loud as cannons. When I was with Danny, it was soft, delicate streamers. My emotions were mixed. I was doing something that felt dangerous and wrong when I was in front of the lens, but I thrived on that danger and loved that it might be wrong.

I had two lives and no one in my other life was interested in modeling. Most people I knew wanted to hide in their rooms partying and smoking pot whereas I only felt good when I was in front of the computer scoping out my mini-site or at a shoot. Weekend trips to southern New Jersey with Danny to visit his family, who had just moved there from Syracuse, were painful. I would feel lazy, bored, and pissed knowing girls would have brand new photos up by next week from the shoots they were on right then.

His parents’ house was freezing. So there I sat, freezing my tits off, eating Jewish food, and parking my ass on the sofa. I had eaten so much challah bread I felt like I was Jewish. I tried to be friendly to his mother, who didn’t approve of me sleeping with her baby. On Saturdays, I went with the family to temple pretending to be pure and interested. Danny felt the same way, which was comforting.

After his mother caught us having sex, I tried to win her over by joining her on weekend shopping trips. At the store, she bought so much jewelry it was as if she owned QVC. I froze in New Jersey because I had no fat. She seemed to disapprove of my skinniness and the way I picked at the meals she cooked. As a result, dinners were quiet.

I wanted to scream from having to behave.

The entire time I was there, I wanted to be back in New York, in front of the bright lights, in front of the camera and naked. I would try my hardest not to mention modeling while we visited them. The coldness of their beautiful home reminded me of the chill of a photographer’s basement or apartment, the windows open to make my nipples hard and pointy.

To escape the pressure, Danny and I relaxed by the neighborhood pond and woods. We biked or stayed in and watched HBO, something I didn’t have in the dorms. Sometimes we would eat out on his father’s credit card. With the family though, Danny kept bringing up school and my classes. Between bites of cold steak I said, ‘Fuck talking about my classes and school projects, fuck my advertising portfolio!’

‘What do you mean, fuck your advertising portfolio?’ Danny demanded, slamming down his water. ‘You’re not thinking about going into modeling full-time?’

‘Why not?’ I said, tapping my fingernails nervously on the table, anxious to get this whole parent meeting over with. I thought about the degree and smirked when I saw his mother’s look of shock, but she merely continued to chew fast. I knew she hated me and my swearing. I didn’t care. I hated her too.

With a worried tone, she said, ‘You should really think about your future.’ She had just retired from being a teacher and sounded like one. Then, after a huge gulp of milk, she added, ‘Isn’t your mom a teacher? Wouldn’t she want you to get your degree?’

Big deal! In two years I would claim a printed piece of paper. It could hardly define me. In front of the camera I was more myself, more real.

Would this weekend ever end?

To make up for lost time, after dinner I snuck on the computer and typed a few emails, then checked up on my Onemodelplace.com account. Nothing new. I hardly had any hits that day and I blamed it on Danny, and his mother’s challah bread. I felt the pressure. How could I call myself a model if I couldn’t even compete with the other wannabes who were no doubt shooting at that very second?